


cockblocking (and other things not in the job description)

by youcouldmakealife



Series: ycmal outtakes [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:17:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4958449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mike/Liam bodyguard AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breidaia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breidaia/gifts).



> This is for breidaia, who was phenomenally generous during Kickstarter and is equally patient. I know you said to give it to you all at once, but I know myself, and I know, without a doubt, this will come out faster, longer and better if I make sure I have external time pressure as well as internal.

The crown prince is running late. Or fuck, maybe that’s: the Crown Prince is running late.

Mike doesn’t know. It’s his second fucking day.

On day one the kid winced when he called him ‘your highness’, said, “Call me Liam, please,” with a smile Mike’s sure other people have described as winning. 

That feels weird as hell, though, and there’s no fucking way Mike’s doing it. It’s also weird to call an eighteen year old by a ridiculous, outdated title, but since Mike actually likes having a job, there’s no way he’s saying that out loud. He’ll settle on Fitzgerald in his head. He may not be the only one, but His Royal Highness and Her Royal Highness don’t seem to be using it much.

Fitzgerald is running late, and Mike has a feeling it’s not a rare thing. Mostly because he’s completely casual about it, like his choice in cuff links supersede showing up at The Magic Flute in time for the curtain to rise. Mike’s not exactly complaining, since he would not describe himself a fan of the opera, but since the damn opera house is practically dedicating this show to the royal family, he thinks it’s probably a good idea to show up with some degree of punctuality.

“Need help?” he asks, finally, because he can’t help it. He doesn’t like being late.

“I can’t find my fucking tie pin,” Fitzgerald says.

Mike is the opposite of surprised. Fitzgerald appears to live in the definition of slovenliness, despite the fact that there is no fucking way they don’t have a maid to cut through the carnage. Fitzgerald’s only made things worse, searching, and the room looks like a teenage boy’s. Which, admittedly, is what Fitzgerald is, but Mike can’t be blamed for expecting a prince to be better than dirty socks on the floor two inches from an empty hamper.

Mike had the daughter of a duke last. She was neat and tidy. If he hadn’t introduced her to every fucking curse in the English language after she ducked protection, he’d still be on her protective detail. Her father must have given Mike a pretty decent reference, considering he made her cry, or else the Crown is desperate. Again, Mike’s not complaining, a job’s a job, and technically, this is a promotion. Which just means more people are liable to take shots at him, but he knew what he signed up for. Unfortunately it usually looks a lot more like babysitting with a gun on his hip. 

“Do you need one?” Mike asks. Can’t find your keys or your cell phone, sure, but a tie pin is not an essential item.

Fitzgerald gives him a look Mike doesn’t bother to try to decipher.

“Yes,” Fitzgerald says, finally.

“Do you need that one?” Mike asks. He suspects Fitzgerald’s got a shit ton of them, judging from the cuff link dilemma.

“Yes,” Fitzgerald repeats.

“Is it more important than showing up on time to something held in your honor?” Mike snaps, can’t help it. He’s still off-balance from the change in schedule, in charge. The little duchess was always punctual; hell, she’d have probably dragged them herself if they slowed her down.  
He berates himself for it the moment he says it. Getting fired on your second day is not exactly the way to get a glowing reference.

Unexpectedly, Fitzgerald smiles. “I don’t want to go to the opera,” he says.

“No one wants to go to the opera,” Mike says.

Fitzgerald’s smile only widens. “Let’s go get ice cream,” he says.

“Ice cream,” Mike repeats flatly.

“Yeah,” Fitzgerald says, loosening his tie, and then pulling it off entirely, to Mike’s consternation. They’re not going to the fucking opera. Mike’s his bodyguard and not his babysitter, despite appearances, so it’s not within the parameters of his job description to argue it, and honestly, no opera’s a relief, but he sure as shit doesn’t want to get fired because he couldn’t wrangle an eighteen year old intent on shirking responsibility.

“It’s February,” Mike says, finally.

“Are you scared?” Fitzgerald asks sweetly.

Mike smothers a snort, but only barely. If Fitzgerald honestly thinks he can manipulate him with grade school taunts, that’s for the better. “Let’s go get ice cream, then,” he says.

“I bet you’re going to get vanilla,” Fitzgerald says.

Mike is, and he’s going to enjoy his vanilla, thanks. He’ll even let Fitzgerald spring for a waffle cone. He really hates the fucking opera.

*

The good thing about being installed during Reading Week is that it gives everyone time to get Mike settled: Fitzgerald apparently insisted on not only going to university halfway across the country, but also on living in residence despite the inherent security risks. Mike will be sharing a double room next to Fitzgerald’s with one of the three other guys working security, the other two in another room opposite Fitzgerald. Whatever got the last guy canned, Mike isn’t asking, but he suspects from the way Fitzgerald went quiet when someone asked who the new guy was, it was probably Fitzgerald’s fault. Likely, the last guy gave him just enough rope to get them both hanged.

Mike has no intention of leaving slack just so some privileged brat can feel like they’re free. 

Reading Week is a mix of Fitzgerald going to events, ducking events, and trying, and failing, to get something on Mike, like knowing his hobbies can buy him leverage or some shit. It involves zero reading, that Mike can see, but it’s not like anyone expected Fitzgerald to be going to school for an education or anything. 

By the time the semester continues, Mike’s pegged him as the sort of entitled kid that’s going to occasionally grate on his nerves, duck his protection and earn him his paycheck, but fundamentally harmless.

Fuck does that initial evaluation slam him with irony in hindsight.

Sometime in Mike’s first month, Fitzgerald starts flirting with him. It may have started before that, Mike just being slow to figure it out because Liam’s a cheerful, friendly presence with practically everyone he meets. He’s even genuine about the friendliness -- it’s no political game, the kid’s got no guile to speak of, and unless he figures out how to get some, his reign’s going to involve a lot of frustrated advisors. So mostly he just figures Fitzgerald’s friendly, which is good, he guesses, better than a resentful charge, and dismisses it.

Except Fitzgerald keeps giving him these looks, coy under the lashes bullshit that he must have gotten from Disney or some teen girl magazine. Apparently he’s reached the state of terminal boredness where flirting with his bodyguards seems to be a good idea to him. Mike wonders if he should internally revise his guess on why the last guy got canned.

He brings it up to Rogers when they’re trading off at six in the morning, Rogers sleepy-eyed and clutching a large coffee from the dining hall. The stuff’s rocket fuel, and tastes about as awful, but beggars can’t be choosers, Mike supposes, and none of the shops on campus are open at this hour. 

“He ever do this shit with you?” Mike asks, and Rogers grunts at him tiredly in confusion. “Bat his lashes like he’s got something in his eye?”

“Nope,” Rogers says, takes a sip of coffee. “You must be his favorite.”

Mike rolls his eyes.

“He’s probably trying to wind you up,” Rogers says. “Or test if you’re going to be a dick. He’s gay.” He gives Mike this stern look, like if it gets out Mike will get a royally decreed disemboweling. Rogers seems too nice and clean cut for the work, usually, but that look alone tells Mike he’s got the chops for it. 

“Okay?” Mike says. “Do we give him a gold star or something?”

Rogers rolls his eyes right back at Mike. Coffee’s kicking in, then. Mike can skive off now that Rogers can keep his eyes open. “He’s sensitive, okay? Be nice. The last guy wasn’t.”

Mike again mentally revises his guess — or confirmation now, he supposes — on why the last guy got canned again, and this time he’s got a fuckload less sympathy. “I’m always nice,” he says.

Rogers laughs out loud. “Go to bed, Brouwer.”

*

It’s not until there’s an event, the high-profile kind that gets a few other faces pulled in, that Mike realizes Fitzgerald isn’t like that with everyone. Him and Rogers are both working that night . There are two other guys Mike hasn’t bothered to get to know, but he shares a room with Rogers, one of the dorm’s traditional two bed set-ups, and while they never overlap beyond handing the kid off, he shares a space with the guy. He likes him fine, too. Rogers is the kind of guy you’d expect in this business, the cliche, who bleeds patriotism and would lie in a puddle to keep Fitzgerald’s feet dry, or some shit like that.

He also makes fun of Fitzgerald to his face, which Mike has never done, and which Fitzgerald just laughs in response to, shoving Rogers’ shoulder. 

“I’ve been on his detail since he was thirteen,” Rogers says when Liam’s talking to the daughter of someone, or niece, or something, answering a question Mike didn’t ask.

That explains it. “He must have been intolerable,” Mike says. 

“Been?” Rogers says, wry, but then he grins at Fitzgerald, small, and Mike doesn’t believe a single word he says. Danger of getting kids -- you start to think of them like younger siblings, and that’s the dynamic Rogers and Fitzgerald have. 

Fitzgerald holds onto his natural friendlinesss for the night, but in an abstracted way you’d expect someone to be with loose acquaintances. When the night’s wrapping up, he sidles up to Mike, deep in his personal space.

“I was good all night,” he declares.

He was, actually. Made nice with the people he needed to, didn’t do anything to embarrass the crown or the nation, and even his bowtie is still in good order. Mike’s immediately suspicious.

“What do you want?” he asks.

Fitzgerald looks considering. It’s the most obviously fake face in the world. He knows what he wants already, he was just waiting for an opening.

“I want ice cream,” Fitzgerald says.

“You’re right, March is much better for ice cream,” Mike says dryly. They’re in Alberta for christsakes. 

“And you have to pick something other than vanilla,” Fitzgerald continues.

“How will I survive?” Mike asks.

It’s not exactly like he’s asking for much. It’s late, so there’s nowhere to get ice cream after they head out except for grocery stores, and Fitzgerald looks at him expectantly in the ice cream section. Mike considers, and then grabs a carton of Chunky Monkey. 

“Really?” Fitzgerald asks, sounding delighted.

“You going to make a chunky joke?” Mike asks.

“No,” Fitzgerald says, lashes shadowing his cheeks, and.

Yeah, this is a thing. Mike should be more concerned about it, probably.


	2. Chapter 2

There’s obviously more to protecting someone than physical safety, especially when they’re the sort of person in the spotlight, expected to speak eloquently, hold themselves with dignity and composure. Regina was good at it, surprisingly so for a teenage girl, but she wasn’t exactly in the same league as Fitzgerald, as far as fame and expectations go. Mike will fully admit that the thought of facing it, before it happened, had him sweating. 

Honestly, Mike has thought about what Fitzgerald would be like in public, the kind of public that means cameras and foreign dignitaries and inevitable write ups, and the idea filled him with dread. He figured Fitzgerald would make the monarchy (more of) a laughingstock, would bring that drawling insouciance to people who matter, but he doesn’t. He’s actually pretty damn good in public, still manages the constantly smiling personality, but ropes it in to socially acceptable levels, always appears to be paying full attention to who he’s talking to. He’s charming, in short.

Mike barely recognized him. Thinks that can’t be the kid who sprayed popcorn on Mike’s shoulder last night when they were watching some stupid stoner comedy, whose grin often borders on shit-eating, who decided, last week, that entering a hot dog eating contest was a good idea. He reverts to that kid once they’re back in his room, trying to sneak his spoon into Mike’s carton of ice cream, giggling like a mad thing when Mike pushes him off the bed.

It occurs to Mike that he likes this kid better, and the thought is faintly horrifying.

*

Whatever goodwill Fitzgerald earned by acting like the son of royalty and shocking the hell out of Mike, that wears out fast, since after that night, Fitzgerald seems to double his efforts on the fruitless flirtation front, all batting lashes and double entendres, sitting too close and taking every plausible opportunity to touch Mike. Mike’s reaction — that is to say, no reaction, at least outwardly, because he actually likes his job, at least usually — seems to piss him off more and more as the week trips forward, and seems to reach a boiling point Saturday night, when he’s supposed to be studying at the library, and Mike’s keeping one lax eye on him and the other on a Stephen King book, until Fitzgerald quits procrastinating by whispering to his friend, and walks over to Mike’s table, adjacent to his.

“Emma and I were planning on sneaking out,” Fitzgerald says, and his friend Emma gives him a horrified look. Fitzgerald, jaw squared, chin up, doesn’t seem to notice, and Mike can hear the challenge beneath every syllable, despite the meaning of the words. That he’s letting Mike come, so he doesn’t get shut down, but that Mike’s not going to like where they’re going.

Mike’s right, he doesn’t, because where they’re going is a club, which is a fucking nightmare for both security and publicity purposes. Mike’s job is technically only the first, but he knows he’ll be held responsible if Fitzgerald ends up in the papers puking all over himself or in some compromising position. Mike has a couple words with security, manages to secure them a private room, at least, so he has some control over exit points, and Fitzgerald pouts at him like he’s spoiled all his fun.

He’s got a few friends already there, evidently, because in short order there are kids coming up, ones Mike recognizes, that have been vetted, because Rogers takes the job very seriously, and makes goddamn dossiers in his spare time. The man needs a fucking hobby. They come armed with a few strangers, but Mike knows it’ll be a losing battle, turning them out, that Fitzgerald’s probably convinced everyone they’re getting a leg up on the dour bodyguard, and they think it’s fun because they’re still fucking kids.

“I have a fucking gun,” Mike mutters, after one of Liam’s friends blows him a kiss. It doesn’t make him feel all that much better.

Honestly, Mike should be calling in one of the other guys, and he doesn’t know if it’s his stupid pride or what that means he doesn’t make the call, but Mike’s done house parties, and despite the locale he’s limited the space to a single room, has limited Fitzgerald to beer with the caps intact, which gets him another pout, like Mike fucking cares, and he might get shit tomorrow, but he feels like he has a lid on the thing.

And he may, from a security perspective, but he starts feeling a lot more apprehensive as Fitzgerald gets progressively closer to a guy Mike’s never met. He looks like a douchebag, the kind of popped collar silver spoon rich bro that Mike expected Fitzgerald to be like. The first time he puts his hand on Fitzgerald’s hip Mike’s ready to tear his hands off if Fitzgerald shows even a flicker of hesitance, but Fitzgerald just grins, that slow as molasses one Mike recognizes because Fitzgerald’s shot it at him more than once, and pulls him up to dance.

It’d fucking serve Fitzgerald right if one of the drunk idiots around him took a picture, or worse, video, but Mike still scans for it, as Fitzgerald gets involved in what can only be, in the loosest sense, defined as dancing, rather than the kind of grind that’s all friction, closer to a fuck than anything dance related.

He ends up watching Fitzgerald, partly because it’s his fucking job, but he’s not going to lie to himself, he’d be looking even if it wasn’t. The kid’s sharp angles, not soft enough to be pretty, except maybe his mouth, but under the lights he looks it, lashes fanning over his cheeks, shirt sticking to the curve of his spine. Mike endures it while neither of them show any signs of breaking it off, as it goes from dirty to filthy, right up until the smarmy fucking douchebag slides his hand down the back of Fitzgerald’s jeans, and Mike’s had more than fucking enough.

He strides over, gets a hand of Fitzgerald’s shoulder, tightens it when he’s ignored, probably on the edge of pain, with the reluctance Fitzgerald lets himself get pulled away.

“What,” he snaps. “I’m busy.”

His mouth is red, and even in the dimness Mike can see the beginnings of stubble burn down his throat. His jeans don’t leave much to the imagination, either, and Mike makes himself look away once he catches himself staring.

“We’re leaving,” Mike snaps back.

“I don’t want to,” Fitzgerald says. “I’m having fun.”

It takes a lot of self-control not to snap back that he knows exactly what kind of fucking fun Fitzgerald’s having, because this is not a fight, this is not a discussion, or some back and forth bullshit, this is Mike with an order.

“Now, Fitzgerald,” Mike says.

“I’m not ready to leave,” Fitzgerald says.

Mike leans in close, so Fitzgerald can’t pretend not to hear him, even over the noise. “If you think I won’t pick you up and carry you out of here myself, you’re in for a huge fucking surprise and a lot of embarrassment,” Mike snaps. “We’re leaving now.”

“Sorry,” Liam tells the douche, “looks like we’re calling it a night.”

“Sure I can’t change your mind?” the douche asks, not deterred by the fact Mike’s glaring at him, which Mike would be impressed by, if he had any room for impressed right now. He doesn’t.

“Nah, problems of royalty,” Fitzgerald says, glaring when Mike snorts derisively. “Let me give you my number, though.”

Mike doesn’t slap the phone out of Fitzgerald’s hand, which says something for his continued self-control, because he really fucking wants to.

Fitzgerald keeps giving him these challenging looks on the way home, like he’s daring Mike to say something. Mike wonders if he took one look at Mike that first time and pegged him as the sort of squeamish homophobe he could infuriate by rubbing up against the first douchebag with a hard on for him.

He’s half right. Or, not half — Mike’s not squeamish about anything, and he’d be a pretty fucking hypocritical homophobe, but he is infuriated. He hates it, the grit tooth clenched fists anger that makes him almost wish there was a threat right now so he could annihilate it. Mike’s fucking furious, and he knows why. He’s ten times angrier with himself than with Fitzgerald, who’s a sheltered brat with no real idea of how exposed he is, how far from safe. The media getting their hands on pictures of some borderline dancing would probably be one of the best case scenarios, but it’s likely the only repercussion Fitzgerald has thought of. 

Mike had wanted to punch that smug bastard with his hands on Fitzgerald right in the mouth, knock a couple teeth out, mar that smarmy fucking grin, and that goes so far beyond the boundaries of his job description he cannot even begin to list the reasons he’s apparently fucked.

Don’t get attached, they say, and that’s never been a problem for him, not really. If they’d added _don’t start wanting into your eighteen year old charge’s pants_ it’s a toss up whether he’d have laughed in their faces or decked them, but he’s not laughing now. He doesn’t want to fuck Fitzgerald: or, yeah, he does, in some other alternate universe where Mike wasn’t responsible for his safety and he wasn’t barely out of adolescence, sure, Mike might fuck the kid, but what he wants isn’t on the table. Fitzgerald’s got to quit playing gay chicken with him, though, before Mike snaps. He gets it, he does. Fitzgerald’s bored and pushing his boundaries, testing if he can trust Mike to protect him if he’s gay, like he obviously couldn’t with the last fucker. Practicing what distinctly limited wiles he has on a safe target who he knows won’t be interested. It’s innocent. Kid stuff.

The way he was grinding his ass into the guy tonight wasn’t innocent, and wasn’t kid stuff, and sets Mike’s blood aflame. His anger’s so tangled up in arousal he doesn’t know where one begins and the other ends.

“Like what you saw?” Fitzgerald asks, once they get back, tugging his shirt over his head, and almost nailing Mike’s derisive snort when Mike looks away. Fitzgerald noisily clatters around, and Mike’s relieved to see him grab his shower shit, so at least he’s not upping his stupid games to strip teases.

“If you’re not going to go for it,” Fitzgerald snaps. “Maybe don’t cockblock someone who will.” 

It’s only two, but when Liam goes for his shower, sashaying past him with this surly, impudent little look, Mike calls Rogers, who comes out of their room, meets Mike in the hallway. Mike’s jaw is so tight his teeth are grinding together. “The fuck, Brouwer?” he asks.

“I need you to sub me in,” Mike says. 

Rogers makes a point of checking his wrist. There’s usually a watch on it, but he took it off to sleep, which makes the gesture ineffective. 

“Rogers, I need you to sub me in,” Mike repeats, low, and whatever Rogers sees on his face makes him agree.

“How long you need?” he asks.

“I’ll take twelve hours next shift,” Mike says. “That okay?”

“Yeah,” Rogers says. “Let me get dressed. He in the bathroom?”

Mike nods, tight.

“What’d he do?” Rogers asks, but it seems to be rhetorical, because he doesn’t wait for Mike’s answer, just goes back to their room. 

Mike should take the opportunity of an early night to sleep, or work off some of the grit tooth energy in the empty athletic centre.

He takes the opportunity of a bottle of whiskey Rogers has stashed instead, because it’s that kind of night. Tomorrow he’ll probably hate himself for it, but right now, all it feels is cleansing.


	3. Chapter 3

Mike’s preferred mode of dealing with things he doesn’t much want to deal with is to make sure they aren’t something he’ll ever have to deal with again, but since Fitzgerald is in his charge, it isn’t really a viable solution unless he plans on quitting his job. His second favorite mode of dealing with things is to ignore them and hope they go away. Fitzgerald dashes that hope the first time Mike sees him, says “I’m sorry about my behavior,” all big eyed, sincere look. Rogers must have bitched him out that night. That’s far more likely than Fitzgerald being genuinely apologetic.

“Let’s just move on,” Mike says in response, and hopes Fitzgerald listens.

Fitzgerald does, actually, cuts down on the flirting, and the lash batting. He’s on his best behavior, which is something to take with a grain of salt, sure, but at least he’s fucking trying. Mike should be content with that, honestly, that the kid’s making the effort, that he isn’t making Mike’s job harder than it needs to be. That he’s doing exactly what Mike asked him to.

Unfortunately, logic isn’t as effective as petty, shitty emotion, and instead Mike’s trying to push down the part of him that’s a little offended it was that fucking easy. That he’s confirmed Fitzgerald was bored, or felt like pushing his boundaries, or did want to confirm that Mike wasn’t going to go off on him in a homophobic panic. That as soon as it wasn’t fun, or interesting, or educational, or what the fuck ever, he quit while he was behind.

It really doesn’t fucking help that Fitzgerald keeps seeing the douchebag, and texting him, and looking all starry-eyed, and Mike would like to say his bristling response is a genuine response to danger. It feels like jealousy, though, Mike isn’t going to bother pretending it isn’t, and Mike doesn’t know who he hates more right now, himself or the fucking douchebag.

Honestly, Mike wishes that fucker would come out as threatening in any way, give Mike a damn excuse. That there was anything sketchy about him other than the way he is around Fitzgerald, which is enough to get Mike’s hackles up in itself, a mix of proprietary ownership and smug acceptance. Rich brat getting what he wants, and if Mike didn’t know Fitzgerald it’d seem fitting, some wealthy kid once again getting what he wants without working for it and some bimbo political child going for the most obvious fish in the sea, but Mike does know Fitzgerald, and he knows the kid deserves better. At the very least, he deserves someone who doesn’t look like a cat catching the canary, predatory, smug, and completely emotionally detached. He’s not a threat to Fitzgerald except in every way that he is. 

The douchebag’s name is Chase, which is a pretty fitting name for a douchebag, honestly. Mike knows that, and the fact that Fitzgerald’s been texting him, because Fitzgerald told him, unprompted, not because they’re reading his texts or anything. They have the capability, but that’s in the case of something like Fitzgerald disappearing, because the kid deserves at least a modicum of privacy.

Of course, that’s out the window the second Fitzgerald disappears when Mike goes to the bathroom, and when the last text is _cum over? ;)_ and an address, it paints a pretty clear picture, and not just that Chase whatever his last name is (it’s Langford, because Mike’s not incompetent) is a douchebag. His phone also has GPS, thank fucking god, and Mike the ability to track it in case of something terrible, which he’s not even thinking about, because it’s Fitzgerald being eighteen and impetuous and horny, and chances aren’t high that he’s been kidnapped or assassinated on his way across campus.

Mike considers waking Rogers up, but time is of the essence, he’d absolutely show that he _is_ , in fact, incompetent, and Fitzgerald would be in for hellfire, more than he deserves, even if he’s being a fucking brat, so instead Mike sprints toward the location the GPS leads him to, catches Fitzgerald a street away from Langford’s off-campus apartment, grabbing his shoulder with more force than necessary.

Fitzgerald jumps, lashes out in a self-defense move, decent actually, but still something Mike has no difficulty deflecting, and half relaxes, half bristles, when he sees it’s Mike.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Mike hisses. 

“He wanted to see me,” Fitzgerald says, trying to pull his arm away from Mike’s grip, not that Mike’s budging. 

“He wanted to brag that he got his royal highness to suck him off just by crooking a fucking finger,” Mike snaps, too angry to leash his tongue, and Fitzgerald flinches. “And you would have.”

“Saving my virtue?” Fitzgerald snaps.

“What remains of your dignity,” Mike mutters, half under his breath, and pretends not to see the hurt wash over Fitzgerald’s face. “Are you ready to go back, or do you want get me fired so you can give him a blowjob and he can brag to his well bred friends how fucking easy you are for him?” Mike asks. 

“Fuck you,” Fitzgerald says, quiet, but he starts walking back to the dorms, which is all Mike can ask for, he guesses.


	4. Chapter 4

Mike is fully expecting to get fired. He doubts Fitzgerald will tell anyone the full story, because that’d get him in a shit ton of trouble and probably lose him every ounce of freedom he’s got, but he repeats any of what Mike said to him to his parents, to Rogers, and Mike is, without a doubt, fucking fired.

Fitzgerald informed Mike he was going to bed, once they got back, making it clear that Mike wasn’t welcome in his room.

“I apologize for my unprofessionalism,” Mike said, in response, and Fitzgerald said, “Okay,” and shut the door, and Mike stayed out there until he was relieved, preparing himself, wondering if it would be Rogers swinging the axe, since he’s the head of the detail, or maybe it’d be a call from His Royal Highness himself, or more likely one of his undoubtable multitude of secretaries.

The next day is a rare day off, and Mike can’t exactly say he enjoys it, instead sits around in the room him and Rogers share, wanting a drink, knowing that’d make shit worse if he got called in and he’d been drinking. Not that he deserves the benefit of the doubt, any leniency at all. He fucked up — again — and he deserves to be called on it. It’ll be the end of his career, and he brought it on himself.

He doesn’t hear shit on his day off, is wired and wary when he’s got another shift with Fitzgerald, who’s acting his cheerful Fitzgerald-y self, and he holds off through Fitzgerald’s first class before he can’t keep himself from asking.

“Why am I not fired?” Mike asks.

“Why should you be?” Fitzgerald asks.

Mike gives him a look instead of answering.

“I was doing something stupid, and you stopped me,” Fitzgerald says, still cheery, though Mike can hear something under it.

“I shouldn’t have—” Mike starts.

“Yeah, you should have,” Fitzgerald shrugs.

“—spoken to you like that,” Mike finishes.

Fitzgerald shrugs again, and Mike realizes for the first time that he’s hunched into himself a little, almost defensively.

“Fitzgerald,” Mike says.

“Liam,” Fitzgerald says.

“You’re my boss, you’re Fitzgerald,” Mike says.

“I’m not your boss,” Fitzgerald says with a frown.

“Your parents, then,” Mike says. 

“So call them Fitzgerald,” Fitzgerald says. His posture’s loosened a little. “Darryl calls me Liam.”

It takes Mike a moment to realize Fitzgerald’s talking about Rogers. “I’m not calling you Liam,” Mike says.

“Can I call you Michael?” Fitzgerald asks.

“That’s not my name,” Mike says.

Fitzgerald frowns. “It said—”

“Checking my employee records or something?” Mike asks. 

Fitzgerald shrugs unrepentantly. 

“It’s Mike,” Mike says. “And no, you can’t.”

Fitzgerald frowns deeper. It borders on a pout, which looks ludicrous on him, but also somewhat, well. Cute. Mike looks away.

*

A week passes, and Mike realises he hasn’t seen the douchebag once. He could dismiss it, assume Fitzgerald isn’t seeing him on Mike’s shifts after Mike’s outburst, but Rogers brings it up too, sounding relieved about the whole thing. 

“Glad we’re done with that,” he says, actually, so it’s pretty fucking explicit relief. No guesswork needed on Mike’s part.

“Don’t like Fitzgerald having boyfriends?” Mike asks neutrally.

“Hey,” Rogers says, “he meets anyone nice, I’ll be over the moon, but the only kind of guy he seems to like is the kind of guy who sets off every single alarm bell in me.”

Mike wonders, almost idle, whether that’d include him, then forces the stupid fucking train of thought down deep. 

Besides, it’s a dumbass question. Of course it fucking would.

“Where’s the douchebag?” Mike can’t help asking Fitzgerald on his next shift, watching Fitzgerald inhale a slice of pizza in the library cafeteria. “You have sauce on your nose,” he adds to save himself, and because Fitzgerald does. Mike has no idea how it got there. It’s not very regal. Pretty cute though. 

Mike hates himself.

Fitzgerald wipes at his face. “Gone?” he asks, and Mike nods. “What douchebag?” he asks, then suddenly laughs. “Chase?” 

Mike shrugs in a ‘what I said’. Not that he should have said it. You probably shouldn’t call your client’s boyfriend or whatever the fuck kids are doing these days a douchebag, even if he is one. Can Mike fire himself for inappropriateness? He could resign. He _should_ resign.

“He was pissed I stood him up,” Fitzgerald says, and Mike manages not to wince.

“Didn’t you tell him you—” Mike starts.

“Nah,”Fitzgerald interrupts. “Whatever. He _is_ a douchebag. You were right about him.”

“Did he say anything?” Mike asks, sharp.

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to go beat him up,” Fitzgerald says, which Mike would like to point out is not actually an answer. “Where’s my ‘I told you so’? Darryl already said it, but we can pretend you were the first one if you want.”

“I shouldn’t have said it in the first place,” Mike says.

Fitzgerald shrugs. “You weren’t wrong,” he says.

“Believe it or not, I didn’t actually just say it to be right,” Mike says.

“I know,” Fitzgerald says. “You were protecting me. I get it. Thanks.”

“You really don’t have to thank me,” Mike says. “It’s my job.”

“Your job isn’t to save me from myself,” Fitzgerald says, “If my dad put that in your job description or something, he shouldn’t have.”

It’s fucking surreal to think that someone refers to His Majesty as dad, but there it is. 

“Consider it a bonus service,” Mike says, dry.

Fitzgerald grins at him like sunshine. “Thanks, Mike,” he says. 

“You still can’t call me that,” Mike says.

“Guys who insist on saving me from myself get called by their first names,” Fitzgerald retorts. “It’s the Rogers Rule.”

“You just made that up,” Mike says.

Fitzgerald shrugs easily. “I’m your boss,” he says. “You’re Mike.”

“Not in public,” Mike says.

“Okay,” Fitzgerald says. “As long as I’m Liam in private.”

“I’ll think about it,” Mike says, and Liam smiles like he’s already won, probably because he knows he has.


	5. Chapter 5

Sometime around Finals, Fitzgerald appears to give in to exam anxiety — or like, exam fucking insanity — and the flirting resumes. Mike’s not going to lie: he is not fucking equipped to deal with it. He probably wasn’t from the start, and the situation’s just gotten shittier and shittier since, because he already feels like a fucking asshole for having anything but protective feelings toward what is essentially his ward, and when Fitzgerald goes back to his flirtation, that guilt and self-hatred blows the fuck up.

Not only that, but Fitzgerald redoubles his fucking efforts, and Mike isn’t sure if he’s getting better at it or Mike is just more of a sucker for it. It’s probably a bit of both. At least, Mike hopes it’s a bit of both, because what was initially kind of laughable is really fucking getting to him, to the point where half the time Mike watches the kid — which is his fucking job — he’s getting distracted by the decidedly more recreational viewing of the hard cut of Fitzgerald’s jaw, emerging from the baby faced teenager, his too long lashes, which make every low lidded look too effective, the way he pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth when he’s concentrating on something. Mike is, to put it plainly, fucking compromised, and if he was even half the professional he pretends to be, he would have handed in his resignation the moment he blew up at Fitzgerald because he couldn’t keep his feelings in check, and he sure as shit should have handed in his resignation when it became clear that this wasn’t going to disappear.

Obviously, he has not handed in his resignation, so that makes him an unprofessional hypocrite on top of all the other shitty things that apparently comprise him. Mike is a beautiful fucking tapestry of asshole.

Fitzgerald doesn’t seem content with just torturing Mike, eventually, pestering him with inappropriate questions, inappropriate comments, an ass Mike thinks Fitzgerald is very aware of is fucking exemplary. Mike is also aware of that, especially because yesterday Fitzgerald told him to come in when he was only wearing a pair of briefs so tight Mike didn’t even need to use his imagination. 

Basically Mike hates everything in his entire life.

It comes to a head when Liam’s enlisted him for studying stats. It’s technically Rogers’ shift, but Rogers is useless with numbers and he asked Mike, as a personal favor, to swap with him and help the kid out. And what was Mike going to say ‘No, because I’m sure as shit he’s going to do something fucking inappropriate?’ Mike’s an adult, he can withstand a few hours of Fitzgerald doing his whole fluttering lashes gig.

“I want to study in my room,” Liam tells Mike when he relieves Rogers. “It’s more comfortable than the library.”

Mike has a terrible, terrible feeling about this.

For about an hour Fitzgerald actually seems to be intent on studying, and Mike relaxes inch by inch, which is stupid. Mike is stupid. He is getting outwitted by an eighteen year old, and it is fucking embarrassing. Fitzgerald’s been inching closer so slowly that Mike wouldn’t even notice if he wasn’t paying so much attention to the distance between them, and Mike’s tried to keep the distance, keep his attention on quizzing Fitzgerald, but it’s a lost cause. 

By the time they’ve worked their way through a quick survey of the year, Fitzgerald’s got his thigh pressed to Mike’s, and the space between them is practically electrified by itself, they’re so close to touching everywhere else. Mike’s been ignoring this, and he thought that might work, but again, Mike is stupid.

Mike puts a foot between them. “You need to stop this,” Mike says.

“Stop what?” Fitzgerald asks. He has a good face for looking innocent. It’ll probably serve him well for the rest of his life. Mike would believe it if he didn’t have so much evidence to the contrary.

“Fitzgerald—” Mike says.

“Liam,” Fitzgerald immediately counters.

“ _Liam_ ,” Mike says. “You need to stop. I mean it. This isn’t a game, this is my _job_.”

“It’s not a game to me either,” Fitzgerald says, petulant sounding. He’s so fucking young, jesus.

“Enough,” Mike says. 

“I don’t think you want me to stop,” Fitzgerald says.

“I can assure that I do,” Mike says.

“Prove it,” Fitzgerald says.

“There is literally no way to do that,” Mike says. “You can’t prove a negative.”

Fitzgerald laughs. “You’re afraid,” he says. “Is that it? You’re afraid? Say you don’t want me, I fucking dare you.”

“Are you honestly daring me?” Mike asks, disbelieving. “Are we in grade school?”

Fitzgerald frowns. “You want me,” he says, sounding petulant again.

Mike’s not going to bother arguing. For one, it’d be bullshit, because for some fucking reason, he does, but more important, it’d sound lame, impotent, and he’s not particularly interested in looking like that either. Instead, he fixes Fitzgerald with a look and hopes it’s enough, and also that he gets a damn vacation, because he can’t do this, not with this kid staring him down, jaw tight, like he’s facing down an opponent. 

Fitzgerald reaches up, and Mike catches his wrist just before Fitzgerald can touch his face. He can feel the fine bones grind beneath his grip, but Fitzgerald doesn’t even blink, doesn’t look the least afraid. He should — Mike could break his wrist as easy as breathing. That’s why he has this job. But then, he’s meant to break bones in aid of Fitzgerald, to protect him, if necessary, and he doubts Their Royal Fucking Highnesses would be impressed if he said he was merely attempting to protect Fitzgerald from himself. Though that’s all Mike seems to be doing anyway.

“You’re hurting me,” Fitzgerald says, matter of fact, still without that trace of fear, that hesitance, and Mike drops his wrist immediately, ashamed of himself.

Mike walks out, door slamming behind him. He can’t go anywhere, he has a job, and Rogers would hardly be impressed if Mike woke him because he, again, can’t handle Fitzgerald. He leans against the wall instead, tries to catch his breath, a little surprised, and embarrassed, that he’s so fucking unsteady. Knocks his head against the wall.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, then louder, “ _Fuck_ ,” and it doesn’t make him feel any better, but then, he didn’t expect it to.

The knob turns, and Mike grabs it before Fitzgerald can open the door, holds it still.

“What, am I grounded or something?” Fitzgerald asks through the door.

“You’re staying inside so I don’t do something we both fucking regret,” Mike snaps.

Fitzgerald’s silent. He hasn’t moved — the tension on the doorknob hasn’t slackened. “What if I want you to?” he asks.

“No one asked you,” Mike says.

“Can you just come inside?” Fitzgerald asks, rattling the knob again. “So we can talk about this like adults?”

“Only one of us is a fucking adult,” Mike says.

“Only one of us is holding a doorknob because he’s too scared to be in the same room as someone,” Fitzgerald retorts.

Touche, Your Highness, tou-fucking-che.

“You touch me again I’m out of here,” Mike says. “And I’m waking Rogers up to take my shift and telling him why.”

Fitzgerald’s quiet for a moment. “Okay,” he says. “Deal.”

Mike lets go of the doorknob and the door swings open after a minute, Fitzgerald looking almost hesitant.

“Sit down?” he asks, when Mike steps back into the room, checks the door’s locked behind him.

“I’d prefer to stand,” Mike says.

“This isn’t a game to me,” Fitzgerald says. “I’m in love with you.”

And the situation just gets better and better. Mike feels like he’s in a fucking romance novel. This is wonderful.

“You’re eighteen,” Mike says. “You’ve got a crush, and I get it. But I can’t deal with this and still protect you, you have to get that. You fucking around like this is _dangerous_.”

“So quit,” Fitzgerald says. “Just. There are other jobs, right? Just. I love you. You don’t have to be my bodyguard to be around me.”

Mike has never been so fucking aware he’s talking to royalty as he is right now, listening to the casually entitled bullshit coming out of Fitzgerald’s mouth.

Mike laughs, rough, rubs a hand over his face. “I’m going to have to quit no matter what, aren’t I?” Mike asks. “Because if you can’t get what you want you’ll keep on compromising both of us.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Fitzgerald says. “Don’t. I haven’t _felt_ like this before. Isn’t that important?”

And there’s the reminder Fitzgerald’s barely an adult. Mike hasn’t either, when it comes down to it, but coming out of Fitzgerald’s mouth it sounds childish, naive. The whole thing is overwrought, the kind of overwrought Mike laughs at, laughs off, but right here, right now, he just feels unbearably tired.

“I’ll stay in the hall until I’m relieved,” Mike says. “You should get some sleep.”

“ _Mike_ ,” Fitzgerald says, looks like he’s going to reach out again, but drops his hand before he can brush Mike’s jacket.

“Good night, Your Highness,” Mike says. He hopes Fitzgerald does sleep that night while Mike stands watch, practising every iteration of ‘I quit’ to serve Rogers in the morning.


	6. Chapter 6

It’s not Rogers taking over for him at the end of his shift, but Jacobi. Mike forgot that Rogers had the day off, but that probably makes it easier since Mike doesn’t have to wait for the end of Rogers’ shift — and Fitzgerald saying who the fuck knows what to him during it — to hand in his resignation. Does have to do it on his off day, though, and he feels like a shit about it, but it comes with the Head of Security title.

Rogers wakes up as soon as Mike enters their shared room. “Am I—” he starts.

“It’s your day off,” Mike says, and Rogers relaxes. “Can we talk?”

“Sure,” Rogers says, through a yawn. “What’s up?”

“Is it enough to hand in my resignation to you, or do I need to —” Mike stops, because Rogers is sitting up now.

“Let me put on pants for this,” he says, and Mike thinks that’s probably the least he could do, considering he’s fucked Rogers’ off day but good.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” Mike says, and waits outside, feeling like he’s got some deja vu shit going on, back to the wall, conscientiously waiting, like he’s guarding Rogers now. Jacobi keeps giving him these weird looks, which is fair, considering Mike’s now basically doing what he was relieved from, just one door down.

“Rogers needed privacy,” Mike says, the third time Jacobi eyes him.

“Gotcha,” Jacobi says, and turns his eyes forward again, thank fuck.

“Okay,” Rogers calls from inside, and Mike goes back in. He’s dressed, took the time to make his bed, too, like you can’t resign in a messy room or something. “You sure about this?”

“Completely,” Mike says.

“We’ll need time to vet someone before you leave,” Rogers says. “Last time that took a few weeks, but you came with a recommendation, so I’m not sure how long it’ll be.”

“It needs to be effective immediately,” Mike says. 

“Sorry,” Rogers says. “Unless you have a good fucking reason, I’m not going to make everyone work crazy shifts just because you want to be gone.”

Mike hesitates. “It need to be official?” he asks.

“If there’s something personal you can take a leave of absence,” Rogers says. “Everything okay?”

“It’s not—” Mike starts, then pauses, because he supposes this might fall under the heading of personal. “I don’t want to get the kid in trouble,” Mike says, finally.

“The fuck did he do,” Rogers says, sharp, then, “He okay?” Rogers probably has a bit of a professional distance problem of his own, but that’s more a problem of keeping an eye on Fitzgerald since he was a prepubescent little snot. Mike assuming with the little snot thing, but since Fitzgerald can still be a little snot sometimes, it’s not much of a stretch.

“He’s fine,” Mike says. “Probably sleeping, Jacobi’s got him.”

“What’d he do,” Rogers repeats.

“He going to get in trouble?” Mike says.

“Depends if he deserves to be,” Rogers says. “I won’t inform the Fitzgeralds if it’s not relevant to his safety, if that’s what you mean.”

“He’s got a crush on me,” Mike says.

Rogers looks like he’s going to laugh.

“It’s not fucking funny,” Mike says. “It’s not some starry-eyed it’ll go away shit, at least in his brilliant eighteen year old opinion. He thinks he’s in love with me, and he won’t drop it.”

“He sexually harassing you?” Rogers asks, sharp again.

“He’s eighteen,” Mike says. “And he’s…he’s a good kid, he’s just. He won’t drop it. You know how he is.”

“I do,” Rogers says, sounding a little grim now. “Okay. I’ll — you start packing, I’ll call the Head of Security in Halifax, see if they can spare sending a guy our way until we have someone who can take over full time.”

“What’re you going to tell them about—” Mike starts, stops.

“I’ll figure something out,” Rogers says. 

“I’m sorry about this,” Mike says. 

“Don’t be,” Rogers says. “It’s on Liam, not you.”

“It’s not—” Mike starts. “Don’t be too hard on him,” he says, finally. 

“I think the next few days are going to suck for him regardless,” Rogers says, and Mike winces. “So I’ll take that under advisement.”

It doesn’t take long for Mike to pack, and by the time Rogers is done making calls Mike works to tune out, Mike’s got everything in a suitcase and a series of drycleaning bags. 

“They’re sending someone in first thing tomorrow,” Rogers says. “Can you stick around tonight?”

Mike hesitates. “Just in case,” Rogers says. “I’m not asking you to take a shift, just be around if we need back up.”

“Sure,” Mike says. If the kind of shit where they need back up goes down, Mike wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. The idea of it alone make him feel faintly nauseous. Which is exactly the fucking problem.

It’s not relevant in the end — whatever Fitzgerald’s stupid fucking ploys last night, he does genuinely need to study for finals, so he spends the entire day in the library, Morris taking over from Jacobi there, because he apparently won’t be budged from his books. Obviously Fitzgerald needs to study, of course he needs to study, it’s good he’s being studious, and yet some part of Mike’s kind of pissed he isn’t sulking in his room instead.

Mike fucking hates that part of him.

No one gives Liam the heads up on him leaving, at least Mike assumes so, because he gets out without incident, just a basic exit interview, Rogers’ assurance he’d vouch for him as a reference. Mike’s sure as shit not going to be doing personal security next — no one would look at that timeline between his last two clients and unemployment without massive red flags getting set off, but it doesn’t preclude him from other security shit. He figures he’ll give himself a week before he decides anything — not a vacation, necessarily, more information gathering. There’s nothing tying him to this city. Nothing tying him anywhere, really.

Four days into purgatory Mike picks up the phone to Fitzgerald on the other side, and honestly, he shouldn’t fucking be surprised. Doesn’t even bother asking Fitzgerald how he got the number — it’s irrelevant if he’s been snooping through records or someone’s phone, either way he shouldn’t have it, either way he does anyway. It’s not relevant.

“What do you want, Fitzgerald?” Mike asks, because that question is.

“Liam,” Fitzgerald says. He’s like a dog with a fucking bone about that.

“What do you want, Liam?” Mike asks, because he’s too tired to outstubborn the kid. He hasn’t been sleeping easy between trying to adjust to a normal schedule and waking up to this crippling anxiety that he’s missed a shift, that the kid’s out somewhere alone and unprotected. It’s not rational, but Mike’s not rational about him. That was kind of the fucking point.

Mike should have left this city on the first plane out instead of booking a hotel five blocks away from campus. He doesn’t know if it’s masochism or hope that kept him hanging around, but either way he shouldn’t have.

“You left without saying _anything_ ,” Liam says.

“To you,” Mike says. “Yeah.” ‘Because I’m sure you would have reacted in a completely mature and rational way’, Mike doesn’t say, because it sounds arrogant as fuck on top of petty meanness. “I think you know why,” he says instead, which just couches the petty meanness in slightly less brazen terms, but what the fuck ever.

“You couldn’t have talked to me first?” Liam asks.

“And said what?” Mike asks. “That your completely inappropriate behavior toward someone who is there to ensure your safety wasn’t just borderline harassment but was also _dangerous_?”

Liam’s quiet. “Oh,” he says after a moment, voice small, and Mike winces despite himself. It’s nothing untrue, it’s nothing he hadn’t already said, but. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Mike says, which is a fucking lie. “I should go.”

“Can I ask you one thing?” Liam asks. “I’ll leave you alone, after.”

“One thing,” Mike says, against his better judgment.

“Was it just me?” Liam asks.

Mike considers playing stupid. Fuck, Mike considers lying through his teeth, but this isn’t his charge anymore, it’s an eighteen year old kid who’s going to feel like a fucking bastard if Mike chooses option b), and he deserves better than that. “No,” Mike says. “It wasn’t just you.”

“Okay,” Liam says. 

“I’m going to go,” Mike says.

“One more thing,” Liam says, because of course he does. “Can I call you, maybe? Sometime?”

‘No’ is an incredibly easy word to say. Hell, it just left Mike’s mouth in the last minute, he’s obviously perfectly fucking capable of it. He has a feeling Liam would listen this time, too, that Mike says no, he never hears from him again. Mike gets another job, and Liam continues bopping along, making Rogers tear his hair out, slowly but surely becoming the sort of man who can rule, that man Mike’s caught glimpses of, between the hyperactive, entitled, devastating boy. 

“I can’t stop you,” Mike says, which is factually false, but…true as anything, in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more part, I promise! Which will earn the series rating.


	7. Chapter 7

A few things happen in short succession — Mike realizes that staying in a hotel downtown is stupidly expensive and faintly pathetic, Mike flies home, because his mother’s guest room is free, and not blowing his savings in a slow trickle of unemployed days is worth the way she hovers, worried, if only barely. He supposes he could have gotten an apartment, but that would have tipped the scales from faintly pathetic to truly pathetic, Mike doing what, quitting his job because he wants — well, he _wants_ — and then hanging around a city that’s a grim reminder, lurking like the tourists who bunch around campus, hoping to catch a glimpse of Liam on his way to class, exclaiming to each other that he’s shorter than he is on TV, that he looks so _normal_. Fuck that.

Not that Liam’s even there. The second exams were over he flew back home for a slate of boring official events, just in time for the summer opera season. Mike’s sure he’s thrilled about that.

Mike’s — well, Mike’s actually sure about the ‘thrilled’, quotes necessary. He could have ventured a guess regardless, but there’s a difference between that and Liam in his ear complaining, “I don’t know what they’re _saying_.”

That’s also a thing that’s happening. Mike said he couldn’t stop Liam from calling, Liam took that as permission, which Mike knew he would. Liam took that as permission to call _all the time_ , actually, and Mike hadn’t predicted that, but he’s picked up every time, so he can’t exactly say he’s doing even a half-assed job of trying to deter him.

“I don’t think you’re missing much,” Mike says.

“I wish you were here,” Liam says. He says that most times, and Mike doesn’t like it, exactly, finds something twists in him when Liam says it, but he hasn’t asked him to stop, either.

“So someone could suffer with you?” Mike says.

“Darryl _likes_ it,” Liam complains.

“I knew something was wrong with him,” Mike says, and can’t help smiling when Liam laughs, that bright, giddy one he only lets out in private. He was probably told, years ago, that it was inappropriate, that it could be contained, and Mike thinks of Liam, a child, a true child, being told that he couldn’t laugh, that he was too much, and tries and fails not to be fucking furious at the thought.

“Come to Halifax,” Liam ends the call with, like he always ends the call with, and Mike, as always, says “I’ll talk to you later,” refusal and permission all at once.

“Who is it you’re always talking to?” his mother asks over dinner. 

Mike could lie, but Mike’s never been any good at lying to her. “The Crown Prince of Canada,” he says, flat, and focuses on his food. Saying it like that, it sounds absurd, and she laughs, then, when his face doesn’t change, frowns. 

“Your boss?” she asks.

“He’s not my boss,” Mike says.

“Former boss,” she says.

“He was never my boss,” Mike says. Apparently Liam insisted enough that Mike finally believes it. Or maybe he just wants to, because even if he’s not in The Royal Family’s employ, there are about a dozen reasons he shouldn’t be picking up when Liam calls, and yet he does every time. There’s only one reason for that, and he’s hardly going to admit it, but he’s sure Liam knows exactly what it is.

“You’re always smiling when you’re on the phone,” she says, a little tentative now, and Mike grunts, pushes soggy carrots across his plate. He never thought he’d miss campus food, but it’s got his mom beat hands down.

“He seems like a very nice boy,” she says, and Mike could ignore that too, but.

“He is,” Mike says.

*

They’d had one of the King’s guys take over for Mike while they were looking for a replacement, but in August they finally get someone vetted, put on Liam’s detail full time. Took a shitton more time than it took them to hire Mike, but then, Mike’s sure they want to avoid Mike’s bullshit no notice run. Mike doesn’t know what Rogers told them, but it wasn’t the truth, and for that he’s thankful. 

“I don’t like him,” Liam complains.

“What’s wrong with him?” Mike asks.

“He’s not you,” Liam says.

“That’s not a good reason,” Mike says.

“Yes it is,” Liam says, and Mike can practically see the stubborn set to his face.

This call, he flips the script, ends with, “Come to Alberta.”

“Aren’t you still in Halifax?” Mike asks.

“Yeah,” Liam says. “But. Come to Alberta in September. I can find you a place, there’s—”

“Like hell is the public paying for a place for your fucking washed up object of affection,” Mike snaps.

“Fine,” Liam snaps, and doesn’t call him for three days after, but when he does call, it’s like nothing ever happened.

*

Mike moves out of his mother’s place in September, because he thinks they’re both royally sick of one another, pun not fucking intended. There are no job opportunities in security around, unless he wants to be a mall cop or some shit, but there are some if he widens the search radius. To Alberta, for example.

It’s just convenient. Oil money means they’re flush with cash, constantly black gold dealing that means someone’s got to protect the green (and pink, and blue, and purple), and there’s no shortage of jobs for a guy with a gun license and fifteen years of security experience. Mike’s less likely to form an emotional attachment to a wad of cash, and honestly, if he ends up protecting people again, he doubts he’ll have one with whatever oil rich CEO he’d inevitably get.

It’s not great money, but it’s a steady paycheck and benefits and, for the first time in a decade, an actual forty hour schedule, a job he can put down at the end of the day, a job that doesn’t keep him up at night. A job he isn’t in love with, but honestly, he’s got enough of that on his plate right now.

“I got a job,” Mike tells Liam. Not when he gets it, but after his first day, after it feels a bit more settled.

“Yeah?” Liam asks. 

“It’s in Edmonton,” Mike says.

Liam’s quiet.

“Do you mean—” he asks, finally.

“Yeah,” Mike says. “Whatever you’re going to say, yeah.”

“Come over,” Liam says.

“I could be busy,” Mike says.

“Fuck you, come over,” Liam says.

“That’s hardly royal behavior,” Mike says, and grins when Liam cusses him out.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a huge thank you to breidaia for your tremendous generosity. I am so, so sorry this took so long, and I hope the length somewhat makes up for that fact!

Liam’s in the same residence he was last year, so Mike doesn’t exactly have a hard time finding the place. Getting in, either, because the desk clerk recognizes him and lets him in without a word, which Mike finds troubling and is going to have to talk to Rogers about, because he’s sure Liam would just shrug it off.

First issue is the guy outside Liam’s room, who isn’t one of the guys Mike worked with, and who immediately has his hand on his holster. Mike can’t say he doesn’t approve — he’s fifteen years too old for this place, he’s built like exactly what he is, and if the guy didn’t get his hackles up, Mike wouldn’t want him anywhere near Liam.

“Liam called me,” Mike says, makes sure to keep his hands visible, stops five feet away. “Tell him it’s Mike.”

“Fitzgerald?” the new guy says, and Liam pops his head out of the room before he can say anything else then beams so wide it practically cracks his face in half.

“Hi,” he says. “Here for — so you’re here now?”

“Yeah,” Mike says. 

Liam darts forward into the hallway, grabbing his wrist, and tugs him toward his room.

“Fitz—” the new guy says, sounding a little panicky.

“This is the guy whose job you have now,” Liam says. “Also my boyfriend,” he adds sunnily, and then shuts the door behind them.

“Your boyfriend,” Mike says dryly. “I don’t recall being asked.”

“Like you got a job here to be my recurrent hook up,” Liam says.

Kid’s got a fucking point. “I see your composition class is finally working,” Mike says instead.

“Bite me,” Liam says, more an invitation than a comeback, and Mike takes it in the spirit it’s intended. “Also take your clothes off.”

“Moving a little fast here,” Mike says. 

“Fuck you, you kept me waiting for months, take your clothes off,” Liam says, and it’s a pretty persuasive argument, so Mike doesn’t see the trouble in complying.

For all the impatience, he’s not exactly quick to take his own off, gets his shirt off by the time Mike’s down to his underwear, then stalls, looking uncharacteristically shy.

“We don’t have to do this,” Mike says. 

“I want to,” Liam says. “I just haven’t.”

Mike blinks.

Liam scowls at him. “When did you think I would have?” he asks. “You guys were always around, you would have known, and the one time—”

Mike stopped him before he could. He can’t say he regrets it, even if it was professional as fuck, and the fact he’s down to his shorts is a pretty clear explanation of his conflict of interest, there.

“I haven’t been on your detail in months,” Mike says.

“Yeah,” Liam says. “Because being crazy in love with someone means it’s a great time to hook up with some random.”

“Liam,” Mike says. 

“Don’t tell me—” Liam starts.

“Come here,” Mike says, and Liam scowls but steps into him.

“There’s no hurry,” Mike says, tipping Liam’s chin up with a finger, Liam’s eyes fluttering shut as Mike finally kisses that plush, infuriating mouth.

He’s hesitant there, too, right up until he isn’t, more enthusiasm than finesse, surging up, fingers digging into Mike’s shoulders, back a warm hot expanse under Mike’s hands when Mike steadies him, compact muscle and strength borne of self-defense classes Mike was never involved in, thank fuck, because otherwise he thinks he might have snapped before he did, faced with Liam sweaty, breathless, and strong.

He’s breathless now, and it’s all Mike can do to pull away, Liam making an annoyed noise against his mouth and trying to follow.

“No hurry,” Mike repeats, and Liam responds by making a face at him and then sticking a hand down Mike’s underwear, all hesitance gone, because he’s a contrary little prick.

“Hey,” Mike says.

“Let me—” Liam starts, and whatever he wants, whatever he’s going to say is swallowed up when Mike kisses him again, takes two steps over to Liam’s bed, Liam pulling his hand off his cock so he can steady himself, hands braced on Mike’s shoulders and thighs straddling his hips when Mike pulls him down.

Whatever it is, Mike doesn’t let him, but Liam isn’t complaining when Mike’s getting the kid under him, hips tilting up so Mike can drag his clothes off, sharp tailored pants that end up crumpled on the floor, which is probably where Liam would leave them anyway, the slob, soft, probably stupid expensive underwear, until he’s all bare skin and hitching breath, too loud when Mike gets a hand around his cock, red and wet at the tip, then louder still when Mike ducks down to take him into his mouth.

He’s beautifully responsive, dangerously responsive, because all Mike wants to do is ratchet things up, get him to keep making noise, get Liam’s hands tighter in his hair, thighs shaking where they bracket him, and he’s disappointed when Liam comes, too fast, barely nineteen and so easy, coming bitter in Mike’s mouth before Mike even has a chance to enjoy it.

“Sorry, sorry,” Liam says, when he gets words back, pulling Mike up the bed with a weak grip, making a noise against Mike’s mouth when he kisses him, tasting himself. “Give me, like, a minute.”

“No hurry,” Mike murmurs, and laughs when Liam smacks his arm.

*

Shift change depends on the day, the length of the shift, and there’s no way for Mike to know when the changing of the guard takes place since it depends on a number of factors, but even if he was listening for it, the murmur outside Liam’s door, he’d probably have been distracted by Liam’s mouth, hot and wet, painfully good once he gave up on whatever tricks he had in mind and dedicated himself to simple suction, big blues determined, challenging. Mike’s confident that whatever the fuck he wants in life, he’s going to get, and that’s only a little bit because he’s currently biased thanks to the fact that Liam’s mouth is as sweet as Mike tried not to imagine.

“Liam, did you—” Rogers says, door already opening, and he’s framed in the brightness of the hall for a moment, enough for Mike to see his face go red. Mike’s tempted to pull the covers up, but it’s a little late for that now. He knocks his knee against Liam’s shoulder, though, because Liam appears to believe that if he keeps his head between Mike’s legs he won’t be seen, and that’s fucking stupid. Also pretty fucking distracting, because Liam’s still got his cock in his mouth.

“Hi Rogers,” Mike says.

“Hi Brouwer,” Rogers says. “Dennis didn’t tell me—”

Mike frowns. That’s actually a security issue, as fucking hilarious as it is to see Rogers blushing like a schoolgirl.

“Hi Darryl,” Liam says, pulling off. He doesn’t sound the least bit embarrassed. Mike’s a little suspicious about this ‘hiding between Mike’s thighs’ thing. “Go away, Darryl.”

“Yes, I will— uh,” Rogers says, and then shuts the door.

Liam starts snickering against Mike’s thigh, which is. Also distracting.

“Liam,” Mike says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Liam says, tucking a smile against Mike’s skin, but he also puts his mouth back on Mike’s cock, so Mike can’t actually be mad, there.

*

After Mike’s caught his own breath, after he’s taken care of Liam, who’s hard again, desperate like he hasn’t gotten any in weeks, Mike puts himself back into loose order.

“Just need to talk to Rogers,” Mike says, when Liam looks faintly panicked at the sight of Mike buttoning his shirt.

Liam sprawls back on his bed, probably the most effective ‘hurry back’ Mike’s ever seen, and he doesn’t need to say a word. “Tell him I’m sorry.”

“I’m no liar,” Mike says, and Liam grins at him.

Rogers doesn’t look flustered when Mike comes out, but then, Mike’s sure he’s got plenty of experience with the poker face.

“Guess things worked out,” Rogers says, not looking at him, so even Mike can’t even tell whether he disapproves or not.

“Yeah,” Mike says. “Some holes in security I want to talk to you about.”

Rogers glances at him then. “Oh yeah?” he asks, and Mike thinks it’s a bigger question than it sounds.

“Yeah,” Mike says.

“I’m listening,” Rogers says.

*

“That took forever,” Liam complains when Mike comes back in. “Take your clothes off.”

“This feels like deja vu,” Mike says, and then snickers when Rogers raises his voice just loud enough that Mike can hear him say, “You know I can hear you,” through the door.

He relays the message to Liam, who doesn’t look remotely pentinent. “Take your clothes off,” he repeats.

“You’re bossy,” Mike says. “You know that?”

“I’m royalty,” Liam says, managing to imbue it with a bored, regal air, before he ruins it with a giggle.

“Don’t remind me,” Mike says, but he takes his clothes off before Liam can repeat the demand and traumatize Rogers even more.

“Hey Mike,” Liam says later, when he’s close to sleep, cheek warm against Mike’s chest, lashes brushing his cheeks. Mike’s never been so glad for royal accommodations, because he’s got a double room, and in it, a double bed, so Mike isn’t hanging half off it. Not that they need a double, considering Liam’s draped himself over Mike like a too-warm blanket.

“Hm,” Mike says.

“I’m going to take you to the opera all the time,” Liam says through a yawn. “So you can suffer with me.”

“Thanks kid,” Mike says.

“Anytime,” Liam murmurs, and falls asleep. With Mike under him, Rogers with his back to the door, he’s safe and sound and protected, and it’s that thought that lets Mike fall asleep with Liam breathing soft and deep and sweet as his soundtrack.


End file.
